


Everything's Better With Sriracha

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baking, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Coffee, F/F, Food, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Sharon's A Lesbian, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: “So, Rogers,” whispered Wade, leaning as far forward across the table as the cramped space would allow, “when are you going to get your shit together and ask that soft barista bear out on a date?”





	Everything's Better With Sriracha

“Ok, so it’s an extra large triple Ethiopian Yirgacheffe hazelnut latte with whipped cream, gingerbread sprinkles, cinnamon, and a single drop of sriracha for Wade,” said the handsome barista, sliding the elaborate drink across the bar, “and a flat white for Steve. Enjoy, fellas.”

“Thanks,” said Steve, doing his best to conceal the blush he felt rising in his cheeks when the barista - whose name, he was reliably informed, was Bucky - flashed him a little smile before going back to work. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, man. What’s the point of getting the expensive single-origin stuff if you’re just gonna bury it under all that crap?”

“The Yirgacheffe’s got lemony top notes,” interjected Bucky, as he wiped the steamer wand down with a bar towel. “With the hazelnut and cinnamon, it tastes kinda like Christmas cookies. Not saying it’s what I’d ever drink, but… I get it.”

“Thank you,” said Wade, glaring pointedly at Steve. “See, not so ridiculous after all, Mr. Unsweetened Flat White.”

“The sriracha’s just weird, though,” added Bucky.

“Thank you,” said Steve, glaring pointedly at Wade.

“Guess your palette’s just not as refined as mine,“ said Wade, as they settled in at their usual table.

Wednesday mornings were Wade and Steve’s Old Soldiers’ Weekly Caffeinated Bitchfest (as named by Wade), when they met at an agreeable café in the city centre to shoot the shit, reminisce about the good times (though their respective definitions of "good times” we’re not always in agreement), and generally avoid actually talking about any of the struggles that came with being not only combat vets, but the former guinea pigs of a top-secret military science fair project that, it turned out, fared better for some than for others.

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” said Steve, as he relished his first sip, dark and smooth.

“So, Rogers,” whispered Wade, leaning as far forward across the table as the cramped space would allow, “when are you going to get your shit together and ask that soft barista bear out on a date?”

Steve blushed. He blushed harder than he thought it humanly possible to blush. He blushed with the sort of humiliating intensity that it was probably visible from the space station. Bucky, oblivious to their exchange, was fixing his hair into a small bun just above the nape of his neck, before beginning to refill the muffin display.

“Waaaaaaaaade,” he protested, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” countered Wade. “Guy literally drew a heart around your name on the coffee cup. He’s hot for you, Steve. Bucky Barista probably lies awake at night longing for your beautiful dick.”

Steve had been too busy noticing Bucky to notice the inscription on his cup; indeed, there was his name, encased in a soft heart.

“Oh my god, could you at least please keep your voice down?” said Steve. “Look, I do like him, okay? But you can’t just ask out somebody you have to see all the time. What if he says no? We’d have to find a new coffee shop, and I don’t know anywhere else in the neighbourhood that’s gonna be as accommodating to your… flavour needs.”

“He’s not gonna say no,” argued Wade. “We’ve been coming in here for, what, six months? He’s had your name and your order memorised for five of them. If I were him, I’d have notebooks filled with nothing but our names written together, and so many thematic playlists for every kind of sex I’d have imagined us having while masturbating.”

Steve buried his head in his hands. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” he said. He was grateful that Bucky was out of earshot then, speaking in hushed tones to a well-dressed blonde woman. Steve casually looked away when he sensed they were about to look in his direction.

“Fine, fine,” conceded Wade, “but just trust me that this guy wants to do all kinds of wonderful gross stuff with you, like visit Ikea to buy lamps for the attractive little loft you’re inevitably going to rent together.”

“Even if that was true, it’s kind of hard to find anybody with, you know, shared life experience,” argued Steve.

“Have you seen the guy’s arm?” asked Wade. Steve had, of course, noticed Bucky’s arm, though it was not polite to stare. Bucky kept his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows most days they saw him, and the shining metal fingers moved with such perfect dexterity that it was easy to forget that it could not have been anything other than an extension of his own body. “There’s no way that’s a standard issue prosthetic. He might get it more than most. If you don’t make a move, I’m gonna have to go full wingman on you.”

—

Calm thoughts, Bucky told himself. He was used to carrying himself with an air of ease and confidence, as befits anybody working in a public-facing vocation, but then there was Steve. Steve had been coming in every Wednesday for a flat white and to talk with his friend Wade - who swore loudly, which was oddly endearing - for almost as long as Bucky had been manning this particular bar,

Was drawing a heart around Steve’s name too forward of a gesture? Or was it too subtle? It was entirely possible - probably, even - that what seemed like flirting was actually Steve’s easy, affable nature, and Bucky’s attempt to suggest that they take their relationship beyond the reach of the espresso machine was a critical misstep. Mercifully, there was no time to dwell, as another of his regulars appeared just as he was refilling the muffin display.

“Detective Carter,” he greeted her, with a playfully curt nod.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she replied.

He shook his head. “No Sarge, just Bucky,” he corrected her. “The usual?”

“Uh-uh,” she said, slumping forward onto the bar. “Bear claw, two lattes.”

“Two?” he repeated. “Long day?”

“You remember that case I was working a few weeks ago,” she said, “the one I obviously couldn’t tell you about except there was a whole thing and I had to work with someone from the FBI?”

“The little red-haired girl?” asked Bucky.

“Well, we closed the case a few days ago, and… we’re meeting for coffee in the park,” she told him.

“That’s great, Share,” smiled Bucky, feeling the milk grow warm and voluminous with steam. “Tell me where you’re registered and I promise I’ll buy you the second-least expensive thing on your wedding list.”

“Come on,” she blushed. “It’s not like it’s going anywhere anyway. She’s FBI, I’m NYPD. I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“Oh please, as if you’d let something as minor as that get in the way of your job,” he argued, weaving the softly foamed milk into an intricate flower atop Sharon’s drinks.

Sharon let out a soft laugh. “Isn’t that more or less what I told you last week about flat white guy? You know, the one you keep making shy faces at whose shirts are all just that much too tight?” she asked.

“Okay, yeah,” he agreed. “I… I drew a heart on his coffee cup.”

“That’s great,” nodded Sharon, resting a hand on his forearm. “At this rate, you might see a movie together in only another five years or so. Talk to him. He’s literally looking at you right now.”

Bucky looked across the bar out of reflex, but Steve’s head was turned towards the window.

“You were saying?” he sighed.

“Please don’t make me talk to him for you,” she said, but inspiration had already struck him.

“It’s okay,” he said, bracing himself. “I can do this.”

—

Wade had had it up to here with these two assholes mooning over each other in silence. It was gross, and Wade was not usually one to be fazed by gross things. That was just how gross it was. If someone did not do something, this could well stretch on until the end of time itself, he thought, and he suspected that Steve was probably even more fun when he was in less of a state of constant sexual frustration. And if Wade was any sort of judge of character (and his judgment was, of course, impeccable), Bucky the barista most definitely knew his way around a wiener. And any and all other relevant erogenous zones. It was not something Steve readily discussed, but Wade suspected that someone as seemingly normal as Steve had to have at least one weird sex thing. Maybe his hair was inexplicably ticklish. Maybe he liked the feeling of freshly shaven legs against silk bedsheets. This was getting oddly specific, thought Wade, but then again, Steve was by no means forthcoming with this kind of stuff.

Either the lesbian with the great hair at the bar had inexplicably ordered them a snack, or Bucky was bringing them an extra for being such fabulous regulars, thought Wade, as Bucky set a small plate of biscuits down at their table. Or maybe it was that actually, Steve, Wade was right all along and Bucky is super in love with you, dumbass.

“Christmas cookies,” said Bucky. “With ground hazelnuts, lemon zest, and a liberal sprinkle of cinnamon.”

Steve took a bite, and let out a little sigh of appreciation.

“Wow,” he said. He was making what Wade suspected was dangerously close to his come-face.

Wade was more than happy to try one, which was almost as good as his coffee.

“Good shit, my man,” said Wade. “So when does your shift end today?”

“Wade, please,” cautioned Steve, which Wade happily ignored.

“Uhh, six-thirty,” said Bucky.

“That’s great, because I’d like to invite you and my friend Steve here to my favourite Ukrainian restaurant,” replied Wade, “except I’m going to get a wicked case of stomach flu sometime between now and then, and you two are gonna have to go without me. Please order the cheese blintzes, and don’t let the waiter’s toupee put you off.”

“I do like blintzes,” Bucky grinned, running a hand over his hair. “Sorry to hear about your stomach flu, pal.”

Steve blushed. “I hope you feel better soon, Wade,” said Steve, turning to Bucky. “It’s okay, you don’t have to - ”

“No, I’d… I’d genuinely love to get blintzes with you,” said Bucky. “Six-thirty?”

“Six-thirty,” Steve agreed. “I’d like that.”

Fucking finally, thought Wade.

**Author's Note:**

> [Posted on tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/154738809821/thecraftycracker-i-guess-this-is-your-fault) ages ago, but I thought it was worth sharing here too. This is probably the only time you'll ever get a coffee shop AU from me, so cherish it.


End file.
